Canto 32 (Southward they find a strip at…)

Southward they find a strip at need Between the mount and marge, and make, In expectation of the Swede, Encampment there, nor shun the Lake. 'Twas afternoon. With Arab zest The Bethlehemites their spears present, Whereon they lift and spread the tent And care for all. As Rolfe from rest Came out, toward early eventide, His comrades sat the shore beside, In shadow deep, which from the west The main Judaean mountains flung. That ridge they faced, and anxious hung Awaiting Mortmain, some having grown The more concerned, because from stone Inseribed, they had indulged a hope: But now in ill surmise they grope. Anew they question grave Djalea. But what knows he? Their hearts to cheer, 'Trust," Derwent said, "hope's silver bell; Nor dream he'd do his life a wrong— No, never!" "Demons here which dwell," Cried Rolfe, "riff-raff of Satan's throng, May fetch him steel, rope, poison—well,

He'd spurn them, hoot their scurvy hell: There's nobler.—But what other knell Of hap—" He turned him toward the sea. Like leagues of ice which slumberous roll About the pivot of the pole— Vitreous—glass it seemed to be. Beyond, removed in air sublime, As 'twere some more than human clime, In flanking towers of AEtna hue The Ammonitish mounts they view Enkindled by the sunset cast Over Judah's ridgy headlands massed Which blacken baseward. Ranging higher Where vague glens pierced the steeps of fire, Imagination time repealed— Restored there, and in fear revealed Lot and his daughters twain in flight, Three shadows flung on reflex light Of Sodom in her funeral pyre. Some fed upon the natural scene, Deriving many a wandering hint Such as will ofttimes intervene When on the slab ye view the print Of perished species.—Judge Rolfe's start And quick revulsion, when, apart, Derwent he saw at ease reclined,

With page before him, page refined And appetizing, which threw ope New parks, fresh walks for Signor Hope To saunter in. "And read you here? Scarce suits the ground with bookish cheer. Escaped from forms, enlarged at last, Pupils we be of wave and waste— Not books; nay, nay!" "Book-comment, though,"— Smiled Derwent—"were it ill to know?" "But how if nature vetoes all Her commentators? Disenthrall

Thy heart. Look round. Are not here met Books and that truth no type shall set?"— Then, to himself in refluent flow: "Earnest again!—well, let it go." Derwent quick glanced from face to face, Lighting upon the student's hue Of pale perplexity, with trace Almost of twinge at Rolfe: "Believe, Though here I random page review, Not books I let exclusive cleave And sway. Much too there is, I grant, Which well might Solomon's wisdom daunt— Much that we mark. Nevertheless, Were it a paradox to confess A book's a man? If this be so, Books be but part of nature. Oh, 'Tis studying nature, reading books: And 'tis through Nature each heart looks Up to a God, or whatsoe'er One images beyond our sphere. Moreover, Siddim's not the world: There's Naples. Why, yourself well know What breadths of beauty lie unfurled All round the bays where sailors go. So, prithee, do not be severe, But let me read." Rolfe looked esteem: "You suave St. Francis! Him, I mean, Of Sales, not that soul whose dream Founded the bare-foot Order lean. Though wise as serpents, Sales proves The throbbings sweet of social doves. I like you. " Derwent laughed; then, "Ah, From each Saint Francis am I far!" And grave he grew. It was a scene Which Clarel in his memory scored: How reconcile Rolfe's wizard chord And forks of esoteric fire, With common-place of laxer mien? May truth be such a spendthrift lord? Then Derwent: he reviewed in heart His tone with Margoth; his attire Of tolerance; the easy part He played. Could Derwent, having gained A certain slant in liberal thought, Think there to bide, like one detained Half-way adown the slippery glacier caught? Was honesty his, with lore and art Not to be fooled?—But if in vain One tries to comprehend a man, How think to sound God's deeper heart!